


girls will be boys and boys will be girls

by phae



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint is sassy, Don't Touch Lola, M/M, Magical Shenanigans, Phil is not amused, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Clint’s reaction is less than ideal in that he sounds excited rather than enraged when he says, “I’m a Transformer!”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	girls will be boys and boys will be girls

**Author's Note:**

> I can't stop! Why Lola, WHY!? Title is from _Lola_ by The Kinks.

Clint’s reaction is less than ideal in that he sounds excited rather than enraged when he says, “I’m a fucking Transformer!”

 

Coulson eyes the vintage cherry red ’62 Corvette that’s parked in the alley Barton disappeared into less than four minutes ago. Clint’s voice comes through the car’s speakers, distorted by a trace of static.

 

“Focus, Hawkeye,” Coulson admonishes. “Sit-rep?”

 

“Well, I was running down the alley, ‘bout to jump to the fire escape to get up top, and then I was _rolling_ down the alley.”

 

In the distance, Coulson can hear the other Avengers handling the cyborg-lemurs situation, and Sitwell is coordinating the movement of agents over the comm. No one else jumped at the chance to check in on Barton’s last known location when his comm went offline, so here Coulson is, debriefing with a smartass classic car that should be a classic smartass human.

 

“Did you see anyone? Come in contact with anything suspicious?” Coulson asks in his usual measured tone, though he will admit, at least in his head, that he is rather agitated by this turn of events.

 

“It’s magic, sir.” The headlights flash on and off, a mechanical imitation of Barton’s typical _you gotta be shitting me_ look. “An empty beer can on the ground coulda done it, and there’s sure as hell no shortage of those in this particular alley.”

 

Coulson checks the street behind him, then looks over the surrounding rooftops. The area’s been evacuated, and he doesn’t catch any movement nearby. “We need to get you off the street. Can you move?”

 

Barton barks out a laugh and an approximation of the Transformers theme echoes through the alley. The car doesn’t react otherwise. “Apparently not, sir. Looks like you’re gonna have to drive me where you want me.” Coulson takes a moment to mourn the fact that a car is flirting with him and it doens't even make the top ten for oddest events of the week before he steps forward to open the driver’s side door.

 

The motor starts just as Coulson lays his hands on the steering wheel and the gear shift moves into drive on its own. “Barton.”

 

“Ah-ah-ah. We’re in the field, sir. Codenames only.”

 

Coulson tries to turn the wheel, but Barton keeps it steady. " _Hawkeye_."

 

"Just sit back and enjoy the ride, sir. You're in good hands. Figuratively speaking."

 

With a silent sigh, Coulson relaxes back against the leather seat. “Make a left, _Barton._ ”

 

The car takes the turn sharply, and Coulson jerks to the side. “Seatbelt, sir. Safety first.”

 

Coulson pulls the strap across his chest and buckles in. “Clint, this is a serious situation. I expect you to act like the professional you are.”

 

The horn honks itself. “No! Just no! I can’t be Clint right now. Isn’t it like a law that cars have to be named after women? Like with ships and shit?”

 

Coulson has to exert actual effort to not roll his eyes. “Right after this next block. What would you prefer, then?”

 

“I don’t know. What color am I? Oh! Am I purple?”

 

“You’re red, Clint. Just like any other clichéd classic.”

 

“A guy can dream. How ‘bout Shirley? Charlene? Jolene?”

 

Coulson allows a brief frown to turn his lips down for a split second. “No. Circle around to the Quinjet.”

 

The agents stationed at the jet eye the car wearily until they notice Coulson behind the wheel. They quickly move out of the way and lower the boarding ramp to the cargo bay.

 

“Billy Jean?” Barton continues, pulling forward slowly. “I kinda feel like a Billy Jean right no—”

 

Coulson reaches up to the radio and turns the volume dial all the way down. If only Barton came equipped standard with a volume control. The honks blasts out _Not cool_ in Morse code. Coulson runs his hand along the rim of the steering wheel, and the engine purrs as Barton revs it.

 

Once Barton puts the car in park, Coulson opens the door and steps out. An agent approaches cautiously, pulling out equipment to start a scan on the non-registered vehicle. Coulson stops him with a glance. “Don’t touch Lola,” Coulson warns. The honk that backs him up is eerily reminiscent of Barton’s laugh. 


End file.
